


The Paths the Gods Set For Us

by Wasuremono



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, Original D&D Setting, Pre-Het, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasuremono/pseuds/Wasuremono
Summary: Afanya Greenspring is adventure-marked, an acolyte at the Temple of Destiny's Paths, and frightened of the future the gods have decreed for her. There may yet be hope, though...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nausicaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Nausicaa! 
> 
> The setting for this one is a novel D&D-oid world, but most of the general setting bits are in place, save for the role of orcs; they're pretty much another demihuman race in this setting, not monsters, although there can be some tensions. (Of course, when is a D&D world ever really at peace, anyway?) I've never written anything with the soulmate-marks trope before, but I really enjoyed working it into a D&D context. Hope you like!

_And Father-of-Moon watched the world, and he saw that its people wandered,_  
_Lost and alone in its vastness, struggling and suffering._  
_In his despair, Father-of-Moon called the gods together and spoke:_  
_"What a cruel world we have made for our people, when they are alone!_  
_We must guide them to one another, to comfort and love,_  
_That they will prosper. I shall mark the skins of Humanity_  
_With lines of destiny, so they may find each other_  
_And gather together as a growing people. Will you, my wise friends,_  
_Mark your people as well, so our tribes may grow as one?"_

By the time she's dressed for breakfast, Afanya Greenspring has spent fifteen minutes staring at her arms, tracing the jagged patterns that run from her inner elbow to the edge of her wrist. The lines are blue-black, a zigzag of serrated points like sharks' teeth, and she has no idea what to make of them. This was the destiny she was waiting for?

The lines first appeared three days ago, after nearly fifteen years of waiting -- fifteen years from when her marks should have emerged to the time they did, a delay that was the surest sign of an adventuring destiny. Fourteen of those years had been spent as an acolyte in the Temple of Destiny's Paths, where she was supposed to be prepared for when Father-of-Moon's markings would emerge at last. Somehow, she feels entirely unprepared even now.

Afanya washes her face, then ties her thick red-brown hair back with a leather cord. She can't focus on this any longer. It's time for breakfast, morning prayers, and taking in whatever wisdom she can glean before her destiny pulls her away from the Temple and into the world.

  
_The Triumvirate of Dwarf-Crafters spoke first, their voices like hammers on anvils:_  
_"Our people are built to wander far, across the land and below it,_  
_And their destiny may lie far from their birth-halls. Thus,_  
_For them, we will mark them with maps that will lead them._  
_A dwarf that faithfully follows his map will find his home."_

Father Markus leads the morning service, and at its end, he summons Afanya to the altar. "Come with me today, dear. We have a petitioner to aid."

Father Markus is not Afanya's official superior, but she has learned more by his side than she can say. Ever since she found her calling in the service of Orc-Mother, he's guided her in the navigation of her faith; after all, a dwarven priest of Father-of-Moon is not much less of an outsider than a human acolyte of Orc-Mother, even if Markus has risen to a respected place in the Father's service. She has always been grateful, even if the thought of assisting him now gives her a touch of trepidation. "How do you need my help, Father?"

"The petitioner is traveling through orc country, and he may appreciate lessons in the etiquette of Orc-Mother's people. He is a nervous one, besides, and wary of traveling alone. We may need to sponsor an expedition."

 _An expedition you may be called for,_ is the unstated meaning, Afanya knows. The nature of being adventure-marked means that her destiny -- her soulmate -- will be found on such an expedition. Perhaps it won't be this one, but she'll need experience, won't she?

Afanya follows Father Markus's lead to the chambers of petition, and they step into his usual meeting room. The dwarf that waits there is young, with a short, neatly-groomed ginger beard, and his silken tunic and elaborate gold jewelry speaks to a merchant or artisan's life. His left sleeve is pulled up, revealing the map on the inside of his left arm: the landscape around the Temple and to the north neatly detailed in sketch-like black lines, and a green trail inked leading from the Temple into the northern mountains. He rises when Father Markus steps inside and sits again at Father Markus's casual nod of greeting. "Hello, friend," says Father Markus. "Has Mother Gudrun explained to you how your mark will work in your journey?"

"The map advancing with my pilgrimage? Yes, I understand. What I don't understand is what precisely the Triumvirate is asking of me! How can my soulmate be somewhere so remote? Is there even a proper town there, or just a glorified gold-camp? And I've got to pass through orc territory to get there, too."

Father Markus glances towards Afanya, and she clears her throat before she speaks. "The map's rough, sir, but you're passing through Roston. They're ruin-traders, and they're very polite. You might meet customs-workers, but nothing else. We can write you papers blessing your pilgrimage in the name of Orc-Mother, if you'd like? That can help."

The dwarf looks at her as if she's suggested feeding himself to a manticore. The last orcish/dwarven war was at least a hundred years ago, but Afanya knows there are still some grudges. "I promise, sir," she stammers. "You'll -- you'll be safe. And their customs... they're lenient, if you're not bringing trade goods. I promise it'll be all right."

"If you are uncertain," says Father Markus, "we employ adventurers for pilgrimages of this sort. We can arrange for accompaniment." That means Afanya, she's guessing. And that means... a journey with this petitioner.

Most of the dwarven petitioners are pleasant enough: nervous, often, but pleasant and hopeful. This one's neither, as far as Afanya can tell. Destiny is destiny, but... could it have waited a week or two?

_Next spoke the Breeze-Bard, who sung the halflings to life:_  
_"For my people, journeys must be joy and whim, not obligation._  
_The hunt for love is less interesting to them than what comes after,_  
_The building of a family and a homestead._  
_Let them be marked with names, so their searches are shorter_  
_And their lives and loves much longer."_

Once Afanya's dismissed, to allow Father Markus and the petitioner to discuss the details of his journey, she slowly walks the length of the Great Hallway and back three times. She ought to be doing chores, sweeping or working in the kitchens, but she's been assigned to light duty to leave her time for "personal contemplation." If only she wasn't walking in circles, in the Temple and in her mind alike.

Why did she have to be born human? Why did her marks have to be abstract, meaningless until their mates were found? Dwarves have maps, halflings have names, and gnomes have both, even if they have riddles attached. It's humans, elves, and orcs who have it worst, and Afanya's blood is a muddle of all three, because Lord-of-Moon had to love both Orc-Mother and the First Elf and pass that down to his people, just to make things _harder_...

After a childhood raised in the Temple, Afanya would never speak against the gods, especially not in their sacred places. But that doesn't mean she doesn't want to, sometimes.

There are a thousand things Afanya should be doing. She should be meditating, or reading, or praying, or sneaking out to the kitchens to help with the luncheon... but what she wants to do is see Mother Kianys. It's childish, but she's halfway to the Priests' Quarters before she even considers that. Maybe it's childish, but right now she feels like a foolish child.

_Next spoke the First Elf, a cloud of grace with only the vaguest form:_  
_"My people will live and love forever, and their search for love is sacred._  
_How cruel to trivialize it with a mark on the skin!_  
_No, instead I will mark them when they have found their true-loves,_  
_So they will have no need to question. This is my gift to them."_

"Mother Kianys?"

"Come in, dear," comes the voice from behind the door. Afanya steps inside to find her host pushing in her desk chair, already turning to greet her. Mother Kianys looks like Afanya imagines her elven great-grandmother must have looked: tall, slender, and silver-blonde. The diaphanous sleeves of her long shimmering robe show her marks: elaborate floral designs down the lengths of both arms, the pale colors colors and silver-grey lines nearly invisible save for a small lily blossom on both shoulders. Mother Kianys is a widow, and the marks of her dead true-love have nearly fully faded.

"Sit down, Afanya," says Mother Kianys. "Oh, my dear, your hair. Let me take care of it."

This is a ritual from when Afanya was very young, from the first confused days after her parents left her in the Temple's care. She takes a seat on a visitor's chair, facing away from Mother Kianys, and soon she feels the first gentle pull of a comb on her loosened hair. "Oils and combs, my darling," says Mother Kianys. "You've got lovely hair. It just needs more attention than you give it."

"I know. I... haven't been thinking about it. I met the petitioner for my first adventure today, Mother, and he's awful! A snooty dwarf who's convinced he's going to be murdered on the Roston Road, and he looks at me like I've hit him with a dead fish, and... is this my destiny? Really"

Mother Kianys chuckles. "It's more than likely not, dear. Most adventures are a chance to grow and learn and very little else. Chances are you'll hold this dwarf's hand down the Roston Road, talk to a few customs-men in Orcish, and be done with the whole thing. I adventured for thirty years, and most days, it's simply your work and not much else. Besides, destiny or not, you'll leave that dwarf at the end, won't you? _He's_ not your true-love."

"... I know you're right. But I don't want to do this."

"And that's all right," Mother Kianys says. "You're allowed to refuse petitioners. It's not kind, but it can be done; you're not the Temple's slave, after all. But think of this as a chance to grow. Besides, you might meet someone more interesting than your petitioner, you know."

Afanya closes her eyes. "I... I was thinking about that. They say adventure-marked don't even _have_ soulmates, sometimes. That it's a mark of a destiny to go die in some ruins somewhere, not... anything else. Is that true?"

There's a moment of silence, and the comb working assiduously through Afanya's hair becomes still. "... I'll tell you the truth. Some adventure-marked die before they find their soulmates. It's not impossible. But... people of all sorts of marks die too early, dear. It's not a perfect world."

Afanya knows that much. If it were a perfect world, she'd have had normal marks show up on her fifth birthday, and her parents never would have abandoned her. As much as she loves the Temple, sometimes it's hard to keep the anger back about that twist of fate, and right now it's festering in her chest. "I know. I'm... I'm sorry for being worried, Mother Kianys."

The comb is moving again, and smoothly, through her hair. "It's all right. Being worried is only natural for adventure-marked. But you're a strong girl, Afanya, and I think you'll do quite well for yourself. -- There, there's your hair done. Let me put it up for you."

Afanya leaves Mother Kianys's quarters with her hair shiny and smooth in a tight, neat bun, fastened with wooden hair-sticks decorated with lilies. If only it made her feel any better.

_Next spoke Orc-Mother, in her voice like stones:_  
_"My people have been given the wastelands, the deserts,_  
_The unforgiving places of the world. For them, destiny may change_  
_In a sudden storm or a loose rock. Why should their marks be eternal,_  
_When destiny is so easily stolen? Their marks will change_  
_As their destiny does. My people will endure,_  
_And they will never lose their chance at love."_

In late afternoon, when Afanya emerges from a long stay in the library, she finds an orc in the foyer.

He's a rather handsome orc, she thinks: tall, straight-backed, skin dark charcoal-grey, with high-spiked black hair and dark green eyes. He's dressed in the traveling linen and leather of the western tribes of Roston, and in his hands is a letter. He turns towards her as she approaches. "Miss! Are you an acolyte here? I need to speak to Mother Runeshi."

"I'm Mother Runeshi's acolyte. What do you need from her?"

"Wait, you..." The orc looks startled, as most orcish visitors do; Afanya's only one-eighth orc, after all, and the outward signs of it have mostly been swallowed by her human blood. "I have a letter from her. She says she'll train me as a monk. I think she's expecting me? My name's Gareshk Strongarm."

Now that he says it, the name sounds familiar; Mother Runeshi's mentioned a promising boy that one of her friends in Roston recommended. Afanya's not a monk herself, but she can see how this orc, with his strong, lean build, might do quite well indeed. "She's very busy, but I'll take you to her." She reaches out for the letter.

Gareshk stares, and she freezes. What is he looking at? Then she realizes -- it's her marked arm, her marks clearly visible. A mixed-blood's marks must seem terribly ugly to a pure-blooded orc --

Gareshk rolls down the long sleeve of his linen tunic. He's marked along his inner arm as well, a jagged line of shark-teeth serrated points. A perfect match.

"... really?" Gareshk says, in a very small voice. "A human? I -- nobody at home ever matched. I knew I was an adventurer. They started shifting again six months ago, but... I never thought..." His cheeks flush black-maroon, and Afanya realizes he's blushing.

"Let's speak to Mother Runeshi," says Afanya, shock fading into a faint but growing hope. "We may have a job to do together." And it may just be bearable, after all. A few weeks on the Roston Road will be a fine time to get to know her soulmate.

 

_When all had spoken, Lord-of-Moon ended the conclave:_  
_"My friends and colleagues, you have spoken well._  
_Our people will never have simple lives, and perhaps_  
_They should not, for they will never grow wise on ease._  
_But we will guide them, and we will choose servants among them,_  
_To carry our words and our wisdom._  
_May all who are marked find what joy awaits them."_


End file.
